In a fairly recent issue of a national news magazine there was a surfeit of facts, figures — a veritable plethora of data about just about every aspect of our culture — much of which was rather interesting.

Actuarial studies about longevity, broken down by gender and race, caught my attention.

For my sub-set, white male, the current average life span is 77 years.

Now, if I adhere to this statistical paradigm, then I have a bit more than two years left.

My own nonscientific actuarial analysis produces the almost exact same result.

I arrived at my “findings” by using my mother’s age at death, 72, and my father’s, 83, splitting the difference, and coming up with the same number: 77 and a bit.

You may ask, “So, what’s your point, Bartow?”

And I may answer, “I don’t really know.”

The wise course, it seems to me, would be to leave such almost imponderable matters to the one who made me, the “Great I-Am.”  (And I’m not talking about our “All-Knowing” county commissioner!)

Regardless of how much time I have left in my journey, I surely am grateful for all the years I have already lived.  Grateful almost beyond my ability to express.

Among the many things for which I am truly grateful are my family and friends. Absolutely. And for all the animals I have loved and been loved by. And for my love of music, reading, and participatory athletic endeavors, most especially running.

And … for the ability to express myself in writing and in the spoken word. (The quality of such endeavors is best judged by others.)

In the splendid book “Same Kind of Different as Me,” Denver Moore, a man who was homeless much of his life, had this perspective: “The truth about it is, whether we is rich or poor or somethin’ in between, this earth ain’t no final restin’ place. So in a way, we is all homeless — just workin’ our way toward home.”

Many of you, kind readers, I suspect feel very much the same.

To life!

APROPOS: “There is no wealth but life.” — John Ruskin